


Pomegranate Seeds

by Nicnac



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but falling in a very literal sense), Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Other, Persephone Goes Willingly With Hades (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicnac/pseuds/Nicnac
Summary: Experimentally Raphael shot a tendril of power through the ground and a flower bud, full and just on the cusp of blooming, grew up directly in front of the god. His whole expression brightened and he knelt down. “Well hello there. My name is Aziraphale. Aren’t you a lovely thing?” he said, and oh, how Raphaelyearned.Hades/Persephone AU
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 234





	Pomegranate Seeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stars_Sky_See](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stars_Sky_See/gifts).



> A very merry birthday to Sky_Stars_See! Thank you for being perpetually lovely!

Once there were two sibling deities, the god of new life and the god of growth. Raphael pulled the new life from the ground, coaxing up little sprouts and saplings. Then Gabriel encouraged them to bloom and grow and ripen. There was no abundance of affection between the brothers, but they worked well enough together and their powers complemented each other. So it went day after day, the forests and the fields remaining eternally lush and verdant for time immemorial and uncounted.

Raphael often wandered off on his own, away from his brother and the nymphs and satyrs that made up their retinue. It was during one of these solitary times that Raphael first saw him. He was another god, standing alone in a clearing marvelling at the forest around him. His skin, hair, and long robes were as pale as death, but his eyes were alight with curiosity and his smile was as bright as the midday sun. Raphael stood in the shadows of a great ash and watched him voraciously. He knew death as his opposite and could see it hanging from this god like a well-worn cloak, but the god did not feel cold or hard. He was warm and soft and welcoming, like a place to rest after a long weary journey. And he did not appear threatened or dismissive of the life around him, enjoying it for exactly what it was.

Experimentally Raphael shot a tendril of power through the ground and a flower bud, full and just on the cusp of blooming, grew up directly in front of the god. His whole expression brightened and he knelt down. “Well hello there. My name is Aziraphale. Aren’t you a lovely thing?” he said, and oh, how Raphael _yearned_.

He did not approach Aziraphale that day, nor the next time he saw him, nor the next, nor the next. Raphael had never wanted anything as fiercely as this, had hardly ever wanted before at all, and there was something so terrifying in it. Perhaps it was better to be like this, for life to silently follow in death’s footsteps for once, rather than risking approaching him and being sent away forever. Perhaps it was better to subsist on these small stolen moments, even if it meant never having more, never getting to ask all the questions he was so desperate to have the answers to, never wrapping his arms around the body he was so desperate to hold.

Raphael watched Aziraphale climb aboard his chariot and vanish back to the Underworld yet again. He collapsed into the sweet-smelling grass and rolled onto his stomach. “Oh mother,” he whispered to the Earth who had once given life to him just as he now pulled new life from her. “What should I do?”

He did not expect a reply. The Earth had not spoken to any of them in a very long time, and he had long since stopped waiting for answers, even if he had never stopped asking questions. So he was quite taken by surprise when a beautiful white narcissus flower pushed its way out of the ground and into full bloom in front of him.

“Mother?” he said, but there was no further response. He sighed, then smiled at the flower. It wasn’t the answer he sought, but he decided to take it as a gift from his mother to sooth his weary heart. He had been very partial to the colour white recently. He plucked the flower and admired the fragrance of it, lovely, though not nearly so lovely as Aziraphale would smell if he ever had the chance to partake of that scent, he was sure. He was so lost in daydreams, he failed to notice the hole in the Earth formed from the spot where the narcissus had been plucked until it grew big enough to swallow him down whole.

Raphael tumbled down, down, down, deep into the Earth. Below him he could hear the sound of hoof beats, of thundering wheels and jingling tack. He finally jerked to a halt, landing in the back of a chariot. The driver reined the horses to a stop, and Raphael found himself face to face with Aziraphale.

Raphael came to a quick decision. He didn’t know if a god of new birth would be welcome in the Underworld; certainly Aziraphale’s journeys to the surface suggested he might be, but he didn’t know. Further, he didn’t think he wanted people to know he was in the Underworld. He might be forced to go back. He shifted his form slightly to disguise his identity. There was no hiding her divine nature, but she might be taken for an ordinary nymph now.

“Um, hello there,” Aziraphale said. If he noticed her changing appearance, he did not comment on it. He squinted up at the gloom overhead Raphael had fallen out of. “Did you… oh goodness, is this my fault? I do try to be careful about the openings I create to the Underworld and make sure I close them behind me.”

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Raphael said. She could only assume this was her mother’s response to her question.

“Well then, I’m glad you don’t appear to be hurt…”

Raphael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. “Crowley,” she said. “My name is Crowley.”

“I’m Aziraphale, King of the Underworld. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He offered a hand to help Crowley up. “Would you – can I offer you a ride back up?”

“No,” Crowley said quickly, only to panic when Aziraphale’s face fell. “What I mean is, I’ve never been to the Underworld before, and I’d love a tour. I’m curious about it.” This was true. She was always curious about everything, but Aziraphale had brought her curiosity about the Underworld and about death into sharp relief. She wanted to know him.

Surprise blossomed across Aziraphale’s face, followed by delight. “I would love to give you a tour.”

They began on the outer rims of the kingdom and slowly spiralled their way inward, that seeming to Aziraphale the easiest way to go about it. But the realms of the Underworld were just as vast as those on the surface, and after they’d been at it for hours upon hours Crowley – more used to the day and night cycle of above than the Underworld’s endless twilight – began to weary and begged a chance to rest. Aziraphale did not sleep often, but he had beds enough to spare in his palace, and so quickly turned the chariot inward to the heart of his realm.

Aziraphale gave over the largest and most luxurious bedroom, the one that by rights ought to have belong to him, save he never cared to use it, for Crowley. Emboldened by the success of the day – Aziraphale’s joy at her interest and delight in her company and the easy conversation they had shared – Crowley paused in the doorway and offered Aziraphale her hand. “Care to join me?” she asked.

Aziraphale hesitated. After a moment he reached up to pat Crowley on the cheek. “Good night, dear,” he said, and retired to the library.

As Crowley lay sleeping, Raphael’s absence began to be noted on the surface. First by the nymphs, then the satyrs and then finally Gabriel himself came to notice it, and he was incensed. How could he do his job properly if Raphael wasn’t doing his? Gabriel went to Metatron, ruler of the gods himself, and demanded that Raphael return and swore that he, Gabriel, would do no more work until Raphael did.

Metatron gathered the messengers of the gods and commanded them to disperse across Olympus and all the world and find Raphael. The messengers obeyed, a thousand rabbits leaping off in a thousand directions. All save one. This last messenger Metatron commanded to go to the Underworld. They had no right to search those realms, and certainly Raphael would not have retreated to such a dreary place anyway, but still the messenger was told to go to the palace and ask Aziraphale if the god of new life, Raphael, had been seen in the Underworld. When asked, Aziraphale, not knowing any better, said no and the messenger left.

The days passed. Every morning, or as close to such as could be had in the Underworld, Crowley rose from bed and sought out Aziraphale so they could continue their tour. The structured nature of it soon fell apart, and it became merely Crowley experiencing the Underworld. She oversaw punishments in Tartarus, offered comfort in the Asphodel Meadows, made friends in the Elysian Fields, attended parties on the Isles of the Blessed. She doted on Cerberus, traded stories with Charon, and debated with Death himself. She marvelled over the wealth found in the Underworld, both the natural caves of precious metal and gems, and the things Aziraphale traded for with them – rich fabrics, stunning artwork, and hundreds upon thousands of beautifully calligraphed scrolls. And all of it was done by Aziraphale’s side. In all her long life, Crowley had never felt such joy or contentment as she did now.

As each day drew to a close they returned to the palace – if they had ever left in the first place; there were days where they never ventured outside, instead whiling away the time enjoying one another’s company – and shared a meal. Crowley, who had never subsisted on anything more than sunlight and dewdrops, declined any food or drink herself, but found great delight in watching Aziraphale enjoy his food. When they were done, Crowley would retire to her rooms, but not before extending an offer to Aziraphale to join her. He never accepted, but he never quite said no either, so Crowley continued to ask.

And, unbeknownst to Crowley, every morning shortly before she rose, a messenger came to Aziraphale begging to know if he had seen Raphael, for the god of new life was still missing, and the world above was slowly dying.

There was a part of Crowley – a part that was stronger on some days more than others – that missed the surface world. She missed the blue sky and the green grass, the fragrance of flowers and the feeling of her power coaxing new life from the ground. She wished to visit for a while, as Aziraphale used to before she came. But he showed no signs of doing so now, and she dared not ask for it, not when every evening Aziraphale could not be moved to either refuse or embrace her. She could not risk visiting the surface when she did not know if afterward she would be allowed to return to the place she now thought of as home.

It was on an evening when the pangs of longing for the world she had come from were especially strong that Crowley’s gaze landed on a pomegranate. Aziraphale had cracked it open and eaten some of the fruit inside, but a plethora of seeds still remained, shinning dully in the candlelight. Fruit always reminded Crowley of the surface, but today it hit her harder than normal. It wasn’t just the fruit, but the colour of it, reminding her of anemone flowers, of the streaks of light across the sky as the sun was rising, of the rich red soil crumbling in her hands. 

As an idle whim, Crowley reached out to the pomegranate and plucked a handful of seeds. The six of them nestled together in her cupped palm as she admired the ruby red colour up close. Then, not knowing what else to do with them, she tossed the seeds in her mouth, surprised and delighted by the sweet flavour that burst across her tongue.

She turned to Aziraphale, intending to comment on the taste, then found herself completely frozen by the look on his face. It was one she had seen before, but only in passing moments and brief glimpses. She had yearned for that look every time she’d glimpsed it, longed to know what it meant, had dared hope that Aziraphale craved for her – for her touch, her company, her love – the same way she craved for him. But now the look was focused unwaveringly on her, and she found the intensity too much to bear.

Crowley stood abruptly. “I think I’ll retire for the evening,” she said, then vanished before Aziraphale could utter a word.

She’d only been her chambers for less than a minute, her back to the door, her breathing harsh and erratic for reasons she could not understand, when there were three soft knocks. Waiting in the hallway was Aziraphale, with the same look on his face, but softer now, more hesitant. And that, the idea that he could feel uncertain of his welcome with her when there was no part of Crowley he did not own, no place he could lead where she would not follow, hurt far more than the fear. “You didn’t ask,” he said quietly.

It should have been obvious, but it still took a minute for Crowley to realize what question he was waiting for. Slowly she extended her hand to him. “Would you care to join me?”

Aziraphale smiled, and oh she would never miss the sun again if she could have that smile with her always. He took her hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckles, then flipping it over to press another to her palm. “I would be honoured.”

Come morning they were tangled up together in the bed, in Crowley’s bed that had overnight, in an instant, become their bed. Then the messenger came.

Crowley’s form had been sufficient to fool Aziraphale, who had no reason to suspect anything was amiss, but the messenger had seen Raphael many times before, and knew Crowley to be one in the same immediately. He landed in their bedroom only for long enough to see Crowley and give out a cry of triumph. Then he leapt away again, back to Olympus and the Metatron.

Aziraphale was merely confused by the messenger’s behaviour, but Crowley knew her time had run out. She cradled Aziraphale’s face in her hands, memorizing the lines of it before stealing one last kiss. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his lips. Then Raphael rose from the bed, ready to meet the Metatron in all his glory and splendour. He did not look back, unable to bear Aziraphale’s shock and feelings of betrayal.

Metatron appeared in flash of lightning. “Raphael, Lord Aziraphale,” he greeted. “I see you’ve been lying to us, Aziraphale.”

“He hasn’t,” Raphael insisted. “I concealed my identity from him; I am the one at fault, not Aziraphale.”

Metatron sighed. “I find that does not surprise me. Very well, Raphael, you’ve had your fun. Now time to return home.”

“I will not,” Raphael said. Not on the Metatron’s word. Raphael would only leave if Aziraphale bade him to go.

“You must.”

“I. WILL. NOT.” The air shook with Raphael’s words and brambles leapt up from the ground at his feet.

The Metatron’s towering rage was visible in his expression, but before he could utter a word, Aziraphale interrupted. “Cannot,” he said. Aziraphale calmly picked his way through the bushes, deftly avoiding the thorns, and came to stand at Raphael’s side. “Raphael has eaten the food of the Underworld, and he cannot return.”

“Is this true?” Metatron demanded.

“It is,” Raphael said, trusting Aziraphale even though he did not know why such a thing was important.

Despite Raphael’s confident tone, Aziraphale must have sensed the confusion in him, and he shrank back half a step. “I thought… you always refused any food or drink, I assumed you knew. Anyone who eats the food of the Underworld has to stay here – they cannot return to the surface.”

“Of course I didn’t know,” Raphael said. His hands sought out Aziraphale, but hesitated before touching, no longer sure if he was allowed. “If I had known I would have downed the whole feast my first day here.”

“Oh. Oh, love.” Aziraphale’s hand found its way to the back of Raphael’s neck and the other buried itself in his hair as he drew Raphael in for a kiss. Raphael finally allowed his hands to settle on Aziraphale’s hips and pull him in close. All around them, roses bloomed.

“Be that as it may,” Metatron said. “We will find a way around this restriction. Raphael you must return to the surface. Without you the world is dying.”

The roses shrank back. “But Gabriel…” Raphael said.

“Do you know your brother so little? He will not work unless you do your part,” Metatron said.

“Then as you are the Metatron force him to,” Raphael demanded. “I will not and cannot leave.”

“His job does not entail doing your duties for you, Raphael. You must return or the world will die and grow no more.”

Raphael shrank into Aziraphale. He did not wish them to ever be parted, but the thought of the world, his mother, dying, of all that was green and bright and beautiful shrivelling away brown and dead forever made his soul sick.

Aziraphale placed a hand on his cheek. “Darling, how many pomegranate seeds did you eat?”

“Six,” Raphael answered, picturing them again, his doom and his salvation, nestled again in the palm of his hand.

“Then I propose this,” Aziraphale said. “Raphael, who has neither drank nor supped since coming here, may return to the surface. But in six months’ time Crowley must return and spend six months in the Underworld, one for each seed she ate.”

Metatron looked thoughtful, then nodded. “That will suffice. I will leave the two of you to say your goodbyes, but I expect to see you soon, Raphael.”

The moment the Metatron was gone, Crowley began to rain kisses down on Aziraphale’s face, desperate and needy. “I won’t go,” she said. “I won’t leave you.”

Aziraphale caught her lips with his and guided her into a gentle kiss. “You will. I need you, but they need you too. In the end, there must be a balance between life and death. Besides, it may grieve you to go, but it’ll grieve you more if you stay.”

She knew he was right. She allowed herself one last kiss, and then another and another, and then stepped away. “I love you,” Raphael said. “I will be home soon.”

Every year, as the sun’s journey began to lengthen, Raphael, god of the spring and rebirth, emerged from deep inside the earth. He breathed new life into the fallow ground, and his brother Gabriel would make it flourish. For six months all would be green and growing. But then with the fall came Aziraphale, King of the Underworld, to collect this bride. And for six months Crowley would rule by his side as Queen, before Raphael rose and the cycle began all over again.

And if some of those bright beautiful days found Aziraphale sneaking up to the surface to walk hand in hand with Raphael, or if on some summer evenings Crowley slipped down to the Underworld to spend the night in her marriage bed, well, then that was no one’s business but their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make flowers grow. Or come hang with me on [tumblr.](https://nicnacsnonsense.tumblr.com/)


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